


Don't Worry

by the_sock_index



Series: Sock's Rant Meme Fills [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Implied Character Death, M/M, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_sock_index/pseuds/the_sock_index
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Sherlock/Sebastian Moran - he can be like GOS!Moran if you want.  Non-con or angry sex. Don't care who ends up where."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Worry

**Author's Note:**

> I asked for prompts on the [sherlock_rant](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/) meme [here](http://sherlock-rant.livejournal.com/7635.html?thread=60193235).

His information has led him here--a dark place full of industrial warehouses and broken windows somewhere near Los Angeles. The street is empty, an apocalyptic ghost town, and the entire area looks sinister. Still, he's so close he can almost taste it.

_One more_ , he tells himself. _Just one more._

Momentarily distracted by what comes _after_ \--visions of his triumphant return to London, his return to John, settling comfortably back into Baker Street and his old life of solving cases--he almost misses the sound of a car driving down the street. But he snaps back to the here and now before its headlights illuminate the warehouse he's been investigating and ducks quickly around the corner, staying still as the car drives by.

Once the street is quiet, he returns to the door. His informant--an old homeless woman--had been reluctant to speak of the tall, blond man with the strange accent who has taken up residence in this abandoned warehouse, but Sherlock had finally cajoled her into divulging the man's routine. If her information is correct--and he's already been able to corroborate it with the evidence of recent mud tracked in and out of the front door, which indicates that a man approximately six feet tall with a muscular build and a size ten boot has repeatedly entered and exited this building--then he should have fifteen minutes until the man returns to surprise him and finish him.

Sherlock silently opens the door, mindful of the age and disrepair of the entire building, and creeps up to the first floor.

There's more evidence here of habitation--freshly broken glass, more mud--and he follows the tracks to another room. Here is where the man, Moran--according to his last source who was the unfortunate victim of a boating accident two weeks ago--has been staying while in Los Angeles. A bedroll, a portable heater, and detritus consistent with small, prepackaged meals. Sherlock scans the room and spots another doorway across the room from him. It's obviously not used--all of the activity happens near the doorway through which he entered--so it makes the ideal place to conceal himself and wait for Moran to fall asleep.

He is careful to leave no evidence of himself as he picks his way over the relatively clear floor. It's slower going than he would like, but he's not about to alert Moran to his presence. Once he finally reaches the doorway, he pokes his head around the corner. He doesn't have time to see or notice anything, though, when he's suddenly struck forcefully on the head. Pain explodes behind his eyes and is so intense that he's afraid he's going to pass out or vomit. As it is, he rears back instinctively, trying to get away, to escape, but he's held fast.

In his line of sight--blurred and swimming with bright, distracting flickers--he notices a tall, blond man looming over him with a grim smile. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you, Mr Holmes?"

Moran strikes him again and Sherlock groans, dropping to the floor this time. He can't move, can only writhe helplessly as the room spins around him. "I'd be very disappointed if that were the case," Moran says, though Sherlock can hardly follow, dazed as he is. The room twists sickeningly as he feels strong hands pull him up and roughly drag him over the debris on the floor and over to the bedroll.

"Well, I suppose it's left to me to finish the job Mr Moriarty started," Moran continues, tossing Sherlock onto the bedroll. Sherlock grunts and tries to roll away, but Moran merely hits him again, not nearly as hard as he did the first two times. Still, it's effective; Sherlock lays there, stunned, as Moran divests him of his clothes and binds Sherlock's hands and feet.

Moran then moves away and Sherlock blinks hard, tries to bring the room back into focus. "And what job is that? Killing me?"

"Eventually," Moran replies nonchalantly, beginning to strip his own clothes off. Sherlock can't help but stare, confused and pained. Something unfamiliar claws up from his stomach to his throat, making it difficult to breathe. "But I believe that Mr Moriarty fucked you first. Oh, not literally," Moran continues, moving towards Sherlock now that he is completely naked. "But that wasn't really his area."

Sherlock gasps when Moran rolls him over onto his stomach, face planted in the bedroll, and struggles against his bonds and against the increasingly disconcerting feeling that has taken residence in his stomach, in his chest, and in his throat which is severely affecting his ability to use his mind.

"Now me," Moran says conversationally, roughly tugging Sherlock up by the hips until he rests awkwardly on his knees, chest, and face, "I'm not much good with mind games. So, I'm afraid that the only way I can truly fuck you is to, well," he finishes with a chuckle that causes Sherlock to shiver and renew his desire to escape.

A loud, hard smack on his arse stuns him just long enough for Moran to pull him by his hair so that he's pressed against a hard, unfamiliar body. The sensation is too much, overwhelming, he doesn't _want this_ and his heart is pounding and his breath is coming so quickly that he's beginning to hyperventilate.

"Don't worry," Moran practically croons in his ear--Sherlock shudders and struggles, gasping when Moran grips him so tightly that even his dulled senses feel the sharp sting--"it'll all be over soon. And then you won't be around to worry over poor Dr Watson when I do the same to him."

His scream of pain and horror is muffled by Moran's large hand.


End file.
